Mathom
by LilyBaggins
Summary: Non-slash. Frodo encounters Lotho Sackville-Baggins and illness while a tweenager at Bag End.
1. The Fair

FIC: MATHOM 1/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. This fic contains no sex, no slash, and no profanity.   
  
In this fic, Frodo is 22, just a few months shy of turning 23. And while Frodo and Bilbo are cousins, since Bilbo referred to Frodo in FOTR as his "favourite nephew," I may occasionally refer to them as   
such . . .   
  
**  
  
Frodo yawned as he woke up and turned over in bed, looking out his window into Bag End's lush garden. The snap-dragons and sunflowers were blooming and it was wonderful, the tweenager thought to himself,   
to be back in his own room again after his two-week-long visit to Brandy Hall.   
  
A soft knock at his door. "Frodo! Breakfast, lad! Wake up!" came Bilbo's voice, and Frodo could hear footsteps as the older hobbit retreated back to the kitchen. He smiled---while he loved his relatives at Brandy Hall and had especially enjoyed seeing cousin Merry---he had missed Bilbo greatly. Yawning again, he sat up and put his feet on the floor, grimacing as he felt sore muscles protesting---he must have overworked himself keeping up with Merry the past week.  
  
"Frodo---"  
  
"Coming!" Still in his nightshirt, the young hobbit dug out a clean pair of breeches and a shirt, pulling them on hastily before grabbing his braces and heading to the kitchen.   
  
Bilbo smiled at him as he came through the door. "Eggs and bacon and cinnamon buns for your first day back, Frodo." He paused, then tousled his nephew's already-rumpled hair. "Now eat and then wash up   
and comb your hair quickly---Drasco and the others will be here before too long and you don't want to be late."  
  
"Yes, Bilbo." Frodo was excited enough about the day head to ignore Bilbo's good-natured chastising. He and a few friends his age were headed to Michel-Delving for the Free Fair, one of the biggest parties of Mid-Year's Day during Lithe. Full of exciting things to do, the Fair's number one attraction was food---the type of food guaranteed to rot out a small hobbit's teeth quicker than he could say, "Bucklebury." The type of food Frodo loved. It was also the time of the annual mayoral election, and Bilbo was planning to go later in the day to partake in that.   
  
Frodo had just finished half the food on his plate when the doorbell rang. Immediately he sprang up, grabbing his cloak and pack.   
  
"Lad, you've wasted half your breakfast," Bilbo chided, "and you need the nourishment. Take a cinnamon bun with you."   
  
Shaking his head, Frodo shouldered into his cloak, going to the door. "I'm really not that hungry, Bilbo." His eyes were sparkling with excitement and he was eager to get going. "And there will be plenty of food at the Fair. I've the money you gave me still."  
  
"All right, all right---be off with you then. Have a good time---now don't stay out too, too late. We might have storms later tonight."  
  
"I won't."   
  
"And don't eat too many sweets and upset your stomach, now."  
  
"I shan't."   
  
"And . . ."  
  
"I'll be fine, Bilbo---just fine," Frodo teased, too happy to have a guardian who so obviously loved him to be much irritated. "I'm sure I'll be back in time for a late supper." And with that, he slipped out the door.   
  
***  
  
Many hours later, as the sun was just setting on the horizon, Frodo waved goodbye to his friends and climbed wearily back up the steps into Bag End. He'd not seen Bilbo all day---the Free Fair had been jam-packed with hobbits from all four Farthings. It was easy---very easy---to lose someone in such a crowd.  
  
It had been a glorious day . . . well, almost a glorious day. *Bilbo is going to kill me,* Frodo thought to himself as he strode in. There was no way to get around it. *Maybe he has already taken to his bed   
for the night.*  
  
But the moment he had closed the door Frodo knew it was of no use. Bilbo was still up---writing in his book in a chair by the fireplace. He turned and glanced at Frodo as the younger hobbit came in. "Well, my boy, did you----" Immediately Bilbo stopped, setting his book down carefully and rising to get a better look at his nephew, an expression of concern marring his features.   
  
"Frodo, whatever happened to your face?"   
  
The tweenager winced. He had peeked in a looking glass and knew he had a very large, quite dark bruise covering part of one cheekbone and the next morning would very likely have a black eye. And he still felt rather achy---no doubt he looked a sight.   
  
"Um . . . Bilbo, I didn't mean to get into a tussle, honestly . . ."  
  
Sighing, the older hobbit frowned. "Let me get you a cool rag for that. Don't even tell me, Frodo. It was Lotho Sackville-Baggins, wasn't it? What happened?"  
  
His nephew nodded. "I promise I did *not* start it, Bilbo---truthfully. I was just talking to Freesia Smallburrow when Lotho came up and started insulting me. He . . . he called me a `mathom,' and told me to leave, and when I refused, he hit me. I think he must be sweet on her."   
  
Bilbo grinned slightly as he held a cool rag to Frodo's face. "Mmm-hmmm. And are *you* sweet on her?"  
  
Frodo blushed and ignored the question. "I have the right to go where I want. And so I hit him back---I do believe I got in a good blow. I'm sorry, Bilbo. No doubt Lobelia will be here in the morning, screaming."  
  
"No doubt. Now you know I'm not one for fighting. But you do have to defend yourself, I suppose, if he started it. Especially in front of a lass. I just hope it won't happen again," he finished in a stern voice. "Now, how was the rest of your day?"  
  
  
"Oh, it was very exciting. Wonderful."  
  
"Good, good. How about a late supper, then?"  
  
Frodo winced at the sound of food. Truthfully, he'd not been able to eat as he had anticipated at the Fair---the smell of the food had turned his stomach a bit. "Thank you . . . but I think I'll just read for a bit and then go to bed."  
  
"As you like." Taking the wet cloth away from Frodo's face, Bilbo felt the bruised skin carefully to make sure no bones were broken. "You feel a bit warm. Are you quite certain you're feeling all right? No headache?"  
  
"Mmm-hmmm. Nothing some rest won't cure, Bilbo. Good night. And . . . and I'm sorry for fighting."  
  
"I know, lad. Next time I hope it can be avoided. I'll come in and check on you later." He paused a moment. "And you know you are anything but a mathom, dear boy. Why, what would I do without you?"   
  
"Thank you, Bilbo." After giving his uncle a brief hug, Frodo turned and went to his room.   
  
To be continued 


	2. A Visitor

Dimly Frodo recalled Bilbo padding into his room during the night and checking his temperature before tucking the blankets more securely about him and stealing back out. After that Frodo had slept fitfully, finding it hard to get comfortable. By the time sunlight filtered into his room the next morning his bedclothes were twisted and drooping on the floor.   
  
Groaning at how miserable he felt, the hobbit opened his eyes slowly---yes, his injured eye was apparently quite swollen by the feel of it. Hopefully Lotho was feeling the same. Somehow, however, Frodo doubted it. Bullies never seemed to feel pain. Or perhaps they just hid it well.   
  
He sat up gingerly, surprised at how weary and achy he felt---the blow to the head must have affected him more than he realized. On top of that, his throat hurt abominably. Should he get up or lay back down? Best to get up---he'd had enough of tossing and turning. Craning his neck, Frodo managed to view himself in his looking glass and nearly jumped at his own appearance. He seemed paler than normal, his bangs sticking up like a haystack, and the side of his face was purpled and swollen. No, Freesia definitely wouldn't look twice at him now---not that she would anyway, he considered---he wasn't hearty and hale like most of the hobbit boys who circled around her like flies to honey.   
  
His distressed reverie was broken when the doorbell rang. It had to be Lobelia, ready to give Bilbo and himself a "proper" dressing down. That was a reason to stay put in his room. Easing himself off the bed, Frodo stole shakily to the door and opened it a crack, listening. Soon enough he heard Bilbo's voice.   
  
"I know what you're here for, Lobelia, and you might as well turn right back around now. You know Lotho threw the first punch. A simple argument over a lass---boys will be boys, you know---"  
  
"Ha! My Lotho has a broken tooth. And if that Brandybuck of yours has brought that horrible palsy back from that hotbed of infection called Brandy Hall and my boy comes down with it I'm telling you I'll---"  
  
At once Bilbo quieted and became serious. "What in Middle-earth are you talking about? What's this about a palsy and Brandy Hall?"  
  
Lobelia's eyebrows rose haughtily as she anticipated delivering bad news Bilbo was not yet privy to. Which wasn't unusual--Lobelia was always in the thick of any gossip. "Well, I can't believe you haven't heard, Bilbo Baggins. Apparently those Brandybucks have been traipsing all over creation and brought the Bree palsy to our Shire. And your orphan has just come back from there to infect everybody."  
Listening at the door, Frodo shivered and swallowed hard. Bree palsy. One of the most dreaded of diseases, it was not endemic to the Shire but struck hobbits of all ages with a vicious intensity every few years or so, usually after travelers from Brandy Hall brought it back unwittingly from Bree. Most cases were mild, but a very few left young hobbits crippled for weeks or even for life. Rarely, a victim was unable to draw breath and suffocated---a terrible thing to watch.  
  
Apparently Bilbo was surprised as well from the sound of his voice. "The Bree palsy? Lobelia, if this is one of your gross exaggerations---"  
  
"Quite the contrary. You'll be hearing about it soon enough, I suspect. Now see to it that your Brandybuck stays away from my Lotho!"  
  
Frodo jumped as he heard the door slam and, still wearing his nightshirt, crept down the hall until he found Bilbo, raising wide blue eyes to meet his uncle's. "Bilbo . . . do you think Merry is all right?"  
  
The older hobbit started at Frodo's appearance. The boy was pale and his cheeks were slightly flushed in addition to his badly bruised face. And he'd not had much of an appetite, which did not bode well . . . . But immediately the older hobbit put such negative thoughts aside and adopted a cheerful countenance for his nephew's sake.   
  
"I'm sure Merry is fine, my boy---Esmeralda will send us word soon. My, you're sporting quite a shiner, aren't you?" Bilbo laid a hand on Frodo's brow, frowning. "I suppose you heard everything Lobelia said   
then? Pay no attention to that woman. And we don't even know if she's correct about the palsy. It could be anything."  
  
Neither said what the other was surely thinking---that if Lobelia was indeed correct, Frodo could have been exposed. But the illness came in many mild forms, which seemed to give protection against the more virulent. Perhaps Frodo was immune, Bilbo thought to himself, seeking that ray of hope.   
  
"You've a bit of a fever, lad. How are you feeling?"  
  
"I'm all right," the younger hobbit responded, typically downplaying his symptoms. "Just tired. Really, Bilbo, my head is only hurting a bit from the blow. I'm not sick with the . . . Bree palsy."  
  
"I know you aren't, but I think you may be coming down with a simple summer cold. And growing up in Brandy Hall you probably had a mild bout of the palsy and can't catch it again anyway. So let's not fret   
about it, shall we? Now why don't you go lie back down and sleep a bit longer? I'll bring you some tea and a compress for that eye and can make you a bit of breakfast if you like."  
  
At the mention of food Frodo's face paled. This morning his stomach was churning a bit and even the thought of eggs and bacon---he shuddered---made him want to throw up. "No thank you---perhaps I'll  
wander outside and get some fresh air."   
  
"Frodo . . . I think that you should stay indoors."   
  
"But . . ."  
  
"Humor an old hobbit, will you? You don't need to be catching pneumonia or worse out in the open air with that fever, minor as it is."  
  
"All right."   
  
"Good. Now, if you don't want to go back to bed just now, let me bundle you up here in the chair by the fireplace and make you some hot tea. I think I've some tansy and sarsaparilla in the cabinet . . ."  
  
  
To be continued 


	3. Stroke of Jealousy

Author's note: ". . . anything that hobbits had no immediate use for, but were unwilling to throw away, they called a mathom. Their dwellings were apt to become rather crowded with mathoms, and many of the presents that passed from hand to hand were of that sort."---Fellowship of the Ring, Prologue  
  
Thank you everyone for the wonderful reviews!! I'm bowled over. As a note to all, this fic is written for the FrodoHealers group on Yahoo, and as such, will heavily feature a sick Frodo. :)   
  
***  
  
Wrapped up in blankets and plied with teas and compresses, Frodo napped off and on in an overstuffed chair by the fire all that day. When he wasn't sleeping he read or wrote letters to friends until his headache forced him to stop. Bilbo considered calling the doctor, but by that evening the tween was feeling much better and even ate a light---for a hobbit---supper of tea, creamy potato soup, toast, and baked custard. And his eye, while still purple, no longer ached quite so badly.   
  
After supper Bilbo drew Frodo a lukewarm bath, which he lay in for a long time, enjoying the smell of the herbs added to the water and the feeling of being clean. As Frodo scrubbed a bit at his foot he considered the events of the day. A messenger had arrived late that morning from Saradoc at Brandy Hall: five young hobbits had taken ill, but so far all Frodo's closer cousins had been spared. And of the five sick hobbits, only one had symptoms clear enough to identify the ague as the Bree palsy. But just the same, the doctors had advised anyone who lived at or had been visiting Brandy Hall---or even Buckland---to stay indoors and avoid social activities for at least a week.   
  
After his bath Frodo sat curled up again in a fresh nightshirt and blanket in his favorite chair, content, wondering what Freesia was doing at that moment. Was she getting ready for bed, sitting in front of her looking-glass and brushing her long brown locks a hundred times? Frodo was certainly not well-versed in the manners of feminine grooming---the crazy things females did in the name of beauty quite stupefied him. But he knew most proper hobbit lasses brushed their hair every night without fail. And he also remembered his Uncle Saradoc declaring "ale is for drinking, not washing" and forbidding the girls at Brandy Hall to use the best ale as a hair rinse for added shine.   
  
Freesia probably didn't need such things, Frodo thought to himself---her hair seemed to be always naturally glossy . She had actually let him touch her long braid at the Free Fair the day before . . .   
  
"I think it's high time for bed, Frodo," Bilbo observed, coming into the room and smiling at his nephew's dreamy expression. "I'm exhausted and you look wiped out---and a bit flushed, too. Although that may not be from your cold." Bilbo winked kindly, and the younger hobbit felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. Wanting to head any conversations off at the pass that might have to do with his admittedly rather pitiful crush, Frodo agreed to go to bed.   
  
"I guess I am rather tired, Bilbo," he said, rising with his blankets and heading down the hall. Bilbo followed, making sure he was well tucked in and checking his temperature before blowing out the lamps and going to his own room.   
  
***  
  
The next morning Frodo felt like his old self again, except for his swollen eye, and Bilbo heaved a great sigh of relief. It appeared, by the looks of things, that it *had* simply been a chill. He kept reminding himself that his nephew could still fall ill, but why borrow worry? Frodo was improving. He'd even gotten dressed that   
morning and had eaten a good breakfast, but Bilbo had forbade him to leave Bag End or fraternize with any of his friends or neighbors until the week was out.   
  
While Frodo cleared the breakfast dishes Bilbo took stock of their pantry items. He'd not been to the market in several days and was missing some key ingredients for baking, as well as fresh vegetables. And he figured he might stock up on his basic medicinal herbs as well, since his nephew was quite prone to illness.   
  
"Well, my boy, it looks like I'm going to need to make a run to the market," Bilbo announced, his hands on his hips as he stared at the larder. "I would ask Hamfast to pick up something for me when he goes, but I'm needing several special items. Will you be all right while I'm out? I shan't be gone long."   
Frodo scowled slightly. "Why don't you take me with you? I'm feeling much better and would like the fresh air."   
  
"No . . . you need to stay in and rest. Just for another few days."  
  
At that statement Frodo pursed his lips, his fine features crinkling up in disappointment. "Bilbo, I feel perfectly well, truly."  
  
The older hobbit sighed and threw his hands up. "The answer is no, lad. Just for today---if you're still feeling well later in the week then perhaps we can go again."  
  
"I will be feeling well, Bilbo. I will be."  
  
  
***  
  
Bilbo had left for the market and Frodo, tired of being cooped up indoors, found himself going stir-crazy. He wanted to be out and about . . . or even just out in the garden reading a book. With the sunshine on his face and a cool breeze . . .   
  
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door and he groaned. *Please don't let it be Lobelia,* he begged the powers that be. *Please, please, please . . . . *  
  
Opening it, he found instead, to his great relief, young Samwise Gamgee, whose brown eyes grew gigantic as he stared up at Frodo's black and bruised---now turning yellowish--face.  
  
"Mr. Frodo! Is that where Lotho belted you? It does look a sight, as my Gaffer would say."  
  
Frodo was surprised as he stepped back a good distance to make sure he didn't breathe or sneeze on the younger hobbit. "How do you know about that fight, Sam? And were you looking for Bilbo? I'd ask you   
in, but I'm not supposed to have visitors right now. Bilbo's gone to the market."  
  
Sam nodded. "The Gaffer was asking as to whether he needed to go to market for Mr. Bilbo, but I `spose he don't, now." He paused. "Beggin' your pardon, but everybody knows you and Lotho were quarreling over a girl. Lotho's told everybody you started it, sir. I saw him at the maple tree swing just a bit ago with a lass, matter of fact. Well, bye, Mr. Frodo---my mum's waiting for me."   
  
"Bye, Sam." As Sam walked off, Frodo's eyes narrowed, picturing Lotho bad-mouthing him at the tree swing . . . with a lass. Freesia? Probably. The more he thought about it, the madder Frodo's easily excitable tweenage mind got. How dare Lotho be off with Freesia at the maple tree swing?   
  
In short order Frodo was fuming mad again, and he decided he was having none of it. Heedless of the fact that Bilbo had asked him to stay indoors, Frodo decided to go see for himself what Lotho was up to.   
  
To be continued 


	4. Nasturtiums

FIC: MATHOM 4/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. This fic contains no sex, no slash, and no profanity.   
  
In this fic, Frodo is 22, just a few months shy of turning 23. And while Frodo and Bilbo are cousins, since Bilbo referred to Frodo in FOTR as his "favourite nephew," I may occasionally refer to them as such . . . Warning: This is a sick Frodo fic written for the Frodo Healers group---if you don't appreciate sick Frodo, best to turn away. :)  
  
  
***  
  
A couple of miles from Bag End hung a sturdy wooden swing from a very large, very old maple tree. It was an altogether pleasant place to be and much used by courting hobbits. Pleasant, that is, unless courting hobbits went there to be alone only to find several other couples there. It was known to happen.   
More proposals of marriage had occurred at the tree swing than perhaps anywhere else in the Shire.   
  
And so it was that Lotho and an auburn-haired lass sat in the swing together sharing berries, both unaware of a pair of blue eyes peeping at them from around a nearby tree trunk. Eyes belonging to a very irritated, now very exhausted hobbit, who had run miles as fast as he was able only to see that the girl was not Freesia at all, but Amaryllis Goldwheat. Who, quite frankly, made Frodo's blood curdle with her impatience to marry and bear children. It was downright frightening how eager some of them could be, the tweenager thought to himself.   
  
Frodo stood there for long moments battling a surge of vertigo and a pounding headache before carefully stealing away from the tree, trying to make certain the other lad didn't see him. He was just about to dive into a cluster of bushes when Lotho's irritating voice rang out.   
  
"Hey! I see you, Frodo 'Brandybuck'---what do you think you're doing, spying on me, eh?"  
  
Wasting no time, Frodo maneuvered through the bushes and began a dead run back to Bag End. He wasn't about to get into another row with Lotho---Bilbo would have his hide. But Lotho was coming after him---and fast. The older boy was taller, and before Frodo knew what was happening Lotho rushed him from behind and pushed him to the ground, yelling. For several minutes the two hobbits rolled over in the grass, fists flying, while Amaryllis looked on horrified.   
  
A moment later Frodo grew unaccountably weak and went limp under Lotho's fists, breathing raggedly and feeling sick. Seeing his prey had obviously been bested, Lotho spat and stalked off, but not before turning around and shouting, "That'll teach you, you good-for-nothing mathom. Useless to everybody and taking what's rightfully mine!"  
  
Frodo was left sprawled in the grass. He wiped Lotho's saliva from his face and lay there for a long time trying to get his strength back. Finally he was able to rise and pick his way back home, heedless of his bruises and cramping legs.   
  
***  
  
Praise be, Frodo thought to himself as he came within sight of Hobbiton Hill. He felt possessed by weakness and sharp pains were shooting up his legs. He had been forced to pause several times before he felt recovered enough to continue. But he must press on, and so press on he did, limping along. Feeling his face, he reckoned he'd probably have another black eye to show for his stupidity.   
  
Yes, he would be punished. And Bilbo's punishments, while never cruel, could be *very* inventive and usually resulted in Frodo being cooped up indoors studying or cleaning out the cellars. Looking up at the clear blue sky, he regretfully bid it farewell for the next several days. Perhaps lasses weren't worth his freedom after all, he thought to himself.   
  
He had made it partly up the road and could see Bag End far in the distance when he decided he must rest. Lying down in a comfortable bed of nasturtiums along the roadside, he curled up into a small huddle. He would rest a few minutes---just a few minutes---so that if his uncle was back at Bag End he would not see Frodo's weakness and know the younger hobbit had been bested in a fight.   
  
Some time later Frodo woke with a start, wondering for a moment where he was. He felt hot and cold at the same time, and a fire was again building in his extremities. Around him the bees buzzed and the flowers swayed, oblivious to one tweenage hobbit's discomfort.   
  
Sighing, he wiped the sweat off his brow and began to rise---he knew he needed to hurry before Bilbo came searching for him. But when he tried to uncurl his legs he realized, with some alarm, that his left one would barely budge.   
  
Concentrating, Frodo tried to move it, but he succeeded only in getting sweat to break out on his brow. The stubborn limb would not obey. His heart pounding in a panic, the tweenager rubbed at the leg briskly with both hands but stopped and lay back down when a painful muscle spasm seized him mercilessly.   
  
"Please," the small hobbit whispered to himself, tears beginning to form in his eyes, "please please please . . . it hurts . . . and I have to get home before Bilbo finds me gone . . ." Feeling miserable and trying his best not to give in to despair, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly and tried to control his rapid breathing. In a moment, when he had gained his strength back, he would attempt to crawl up the road.   
  
"Frodo-lad?"   
  
Frodo blinked, trying to focus on the older hobbit standing over him.   
  
"Bilbo . . ."   
  
"Frodo, what in Middle-earth are you doing out here? I was just coming to look for you, lad . . . where have you been? I asked you to stay inside, and you deliberately disobeyed. Here I've made you baked chicken and mushrooms and it's growing cold as we---"  
  
Bilbo stopped suddenly, noticing the tweenager's distress at the mention of food, the teary eyes, and the flushed face. "My boy?" At once the older hobbit was kneeling at Frodo's side, feeling his face, his eyes growing wide in concern.   
  
"You've a fever---let's get you home and in bed right away."  
  
He moved to scoop Frodo up in his arms, but the younger hobbit stopped him, his mouth working soundlessly before he was able to talk. "Oh, Bilbo . . . I . . . I can't get it to move, Bilbo. My leg---it . . . I can't move it. I'm so sorry, Bilbo . . . I only meant to be gone a few minutes, really . . ."  
  
Bilbo's eyes widened at this revelation but he carefully hid his overwhelming alarm. "I know . . . sssshhh . . ."  
  
"Bilbo . . . I'm going to . . ." Frodo stopped abruptly, choking, and Bilbo held his brow and heaving shoulders as the tweenager began to vomit into the nasturtiums. When it was over the older hobbit retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Frodo's dripping mouth.   
  
"There, my boy . . . just rest easy."  
  
"I ruined the flowers," Frodo choked out, coughing. His head was pounding and a fire was spreading throughout his back and down his legs.   
  
"Never you mind about that, lad. Let's get you into bed and call the doctor."  
  
Carefully Bilbo picked his nephew up and, cradling him close, carried him back to Bag End, his own heart racing.   
  
To be continued 


	5. Back Home

FIC: MATHOM 5?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13 for wee hobbit pain and suffering and graphic medical detail.   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. This fic contains no sex, no slash, and no profanity.   
  
In this fic, Frodo is 22, just a few months shy of turning 23. And while Frodo and Bilbo are cousins, since Bilbo referred to Frodo in FOTR as his "favourite nephew," I may occasionally refer to them as such . . .   
  
  
***  
  
Frodo, feeling as weak and flushed as he could ever remember, clasped Bilbo's neck tightly and shut his eyes as his uncle bore him up the hill. A burning ache had settled in his legs and seemed to be spreading outward, and his throat was ever so sore.   
  
"Nearly home, lad," Bilbo soothed, his breathing heavy from walking so quickly.   
  
Outside the smial Hamfast Gamgee was pulling weeds from the garden, but as soon as he heard Bilbo's voice he turned, startled at the sight that greeted him. "Mr. Bilbo! What's happened?"  
  
"Frodo is very ill . . . would you mind going to fetch the doctor? I don't dare leave him."  
  
"Nossir, course not . . . I'll go straightaway."  
  
"Thank you, Hamfast. Please tell him it's urgent. And Hamfast . . . it could be something contagious---best to keep your young ones away from Bag End for a while."  
  
The Gaffer nodded, his eyes wide, and sped down the hill as quickly as his legs could carry him.   
  
Frodo sighed with relief as they entered Bag End's round door and were once again surrounded by the familiar smells of home. He was feeling a bit better and surely everything would be all right now---why, he was likely making a big fuss over nothing more than a cold and a simple stomach upset. And his leg---probably just a bit of weakness from running so hard while feeling ill. And then he had gone and foolishly overreacted to it all.   
  
Well, at least he he *thought*he was improving until Bilbo carried him past the kitchen toward his bedroom and the smells of baked chicken and mushrooms wafted out into the hall. On a good day Frodo would have been ecstatic for such a meal---indeed, Bilbo loved to try to "fatten him up,"---but this time, it was all he could do to bite his lip and keep the remaining contents of his belly in place.   
  
Soon enough they reached his bedroom, and Frodo drew a great breath as Bilbo pulled the quilts back from his plump featherbed and gently settled the tweenager down. It was heavenly---the sheets were cool against his burning skin and the softness felt much better than a bed of nasturtiums.   
  
But Bilbo was now looking down at him, his face creased with worry, and Frodo felt his face grow even hotter with shame. He'd disobeyed and left Bag End when told not to---and had given his uncle a terrible fright.   
  
"I'm sorry, Bilbo." His voice was little more than a pained whisper. "Lotho and I, we . . . we got into another fight. I . . . I didn't mean to leave, Bilbo . . . I'm so sorry. I'll clean the cellar or do whatever to make it up to you, I promise."  
  
The older hobbit's face relaxed as he caressed Frodo's cheek affectionately, surreptitiously also checking his temperature. "Shhhhh . . . lads will be lads where lasses are concerned, I suppose. We'll talk about it when you're feeling better. Now, Frodo, are you able to move your legs at all?" Bilbo waited, looking for all the world to Frodo as if he were hoping against hope that his nephew had been dreaming or imagining things when he'd been found alongside the road.   
  
"I'll . . . I'll try, Bilbo." Experimentally he flexed his left ankle and tried to raise his left leg---the one that had been so stubborn earlier---but found that no matter how he gritted his teeth and concentrated, he could not raise it more than just slightly off the bed. His face wet with sweat, he stared up at Bilbo worriedly. "I still can't move it, Bilbo. I can barely move it at all . . ." Tears started in his eyes and rolled down one flushed cheek as he began to breathe rapidly. "I have the Bree palsy, don't I?"  
  
"Ssssshhhh, my boy . . . calm down. We don't know that, and even if you do, Dr. Littlefield is on his way and he'll fix you up. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." Bilbo grabbed a handkerchief and wiped the tears away. But to the tweenager, his uncle's voice sounded shaky and uncertain no matter how he tried to hide it. "Now, let's get you undressed and more comfortable, shall we?"  
  
Frodo nodded, trying to find a comfortable position in bed; he felt as if a miniature bonfire had suddenly sprang up under his back. With nimble fingers Bilbo began to divest Frodo of his clothing, frowning at the slight beginnings of bruises on the delicate skin.   
  
"I really didn't mean to leave, Bilbo . . . I don't know what came over me," Frodo rambled, noticing Bilbo's expression. "And Lotho wasn't with Freesia at all---he was with Amaryllis. I made a fool of myself, as usual . . a total, utter fool of myself . . . I couldn't even best him in a fight . . ."  
  
Bilbo chuckled a bit, trying to lighten the mood as he pulled Frodo's breeches off. "Lad, if I had a Shire penny for everyone who embarrassed themselves over someone of the opposite gender . . . well, I've a story to tell you when you're feeling up to it."  
  
"Tell me now."  
  
The older hobbit shook his head. "When you're feeling better---right now you need to rest." He paused a moment, shaking his head. "Although I'm not at all certain how to explain to the doctor the black eye you're developing."  
  
Frodo sighed, and suddenly a burning sensation shot down his leg and he whimpered, his body jerking slightly. Immediately his uncle was kneading the leg and in a minutes' time, the dire pain was replaced by a prickly sensation.   
  
"Better now?" Bilbo asked, and Frodo nodded. Rising, the older hobbit fetched towels and a basin of room-temperature water and added a few packets of chamomile to it before settling on Frodo's bed and gently wiping the tweenager's feverish body down. It did feel nice, Frodo had to admit---he felt sticky with sweat. Then he felt another sensation---his stomach was rebelling again. "Bilbo . . ."  
  
His uncle immediately helped Frodo turn onto his side, holding his head over a hastily grabbed bowl as the tweenager vomited.   
  
The punishment seemed to go on forever until the young hobbit's stomach was completely empty, after which Bilbo wiped his face and neck and settled him back among his pillows. Frodo lay there breathing rapidly, his head beginning to ache right behind his eyes. He grimaced---didn't he already feel bad enough without the headache?   
  
Bilbo swiftly finished sponging his nephew down and eased a soft nightshirt over him, trying to be as gentle as possible when Frodo winced at his touch.   
  
"I'm sorry, Bilbo . . . it . . . it hurts to be touched. My skin feels like it's on fire."  
  
"I know, lad. Now, how about a cup of tea to ease your stomach and wash the bad taste out of your mouth?"  
  
Frodo nodded, quite thirsty, and patting the tween's shoulder, Bilbo went to fetch the promised drink.   
  
As he stared at the ceiling beams, Frodo imagined how soothing something to drink would feel to his sore throat. And his mind wandered to thoughts of his cousins at Brandy Hall. He hoped with all his heart that Merry was still all right and had managed to avoid getting the Bree palsy. *And maybe I don't have it either,* Frodo thought to himself. After all, Bree palsy was supposedly a dreadful illness, and so far, Frodo felt rather ill, but he had felt far more miserable symptoms from other illnesses he'd had: the runs . . . or pain in his ears . . . or terrible stomach cramping . . . or difficulty breathing as he'd had when he was stricken with pneumonia as a youngster.   
  
"Here we go." Bilbo made his way back into the bedroom with a tray and sat carefully on the bed. "Let me help you."  
  
"That's all right . . . I think I can drink it myself."  
  
His uncle nodded skeptically. "All right, let me just sit you up a bit and I'll let you try while I tidy the room up, then."  
  
Frodo nodded, letting Bilbo prop him up on pillows. He took the warm cup and sipped from it as he watched the older hobbit fussing about, laying stacks of towels on the desk, opening the curtains, gathering clean sheets, fluffing pillows . . .   
  
The tea was tangy and sweet and felt good washing over Frodo's tongue---and then it happened. Suddenly the warm liquid was not going down his throat at all, as it definitely was meant to, but back up---through his nose, at the same time also going down into his windpipe. The young hobbit sat in shock for a moment, watching the tea dribble out of his nostrils onto his sheets, and then he began to choke.   
  
To be continued 


	6. Dr Littlefield

FIC: MATHOM 6?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. This fic contains no sex, no slash, and no profanity.   
  
In this fic, Frodo is 22, just a few months shy of turning 23. And while Frodo and Bilbo are cousins, since Bilbo referred to Frodo in FOTR as his "favourite nephew," I may occasionally refer to them as such . . .   
  
***  
  
If Bilbo or Frodo Baggins had ever been struck dumb by any event, this was surely it. Frodo coughed violently as Bilbo rushed to his side, holding the tweenager's shoulders and patting his back as Frodo spat up the tangy tea and tried to regain some air in his lungs.   
  
"There's a lad . . . easy now . . . sit up a bit, that's it, can you breathe?"   
  
Frodo nodded, his heart pounding, as he gasped and held his burning nose. "What . . . what happened . . . I couldn't swallow, Bilbo . . . it came back up . . ." Suddenly he felt incredibly weak and sagged, letting Bilbo support him.   
  
"I don't know, but the doctor should be here any minute." Gently his uncle took the cup away, setting it aside as he settled Frodo back down comfortably on the bed. As the tweenager's spine met the feather mattress a spasm of pain hit, causing him to arch his back slightly, and he gripped the sheets until the fit passed.   
  
"Where does it hurt, lad?" Bilbo's eyes were creased with concern as he placed a cool compress on the feverish brow and moved to change the top sheet, which was now spattered with ginger tea.   
  
"Everywhere . . . my head and back hurt . . . and I'm hot . . . and cold." As he spoke his eyes widened---his voice sounded deeper somehow. Why was that? He'd already gone through the "ripening" as his Uncle Saradoc had embarrassedly called it at the time. Hobbits were not terribly shy about bodily maturation, but in Brandy Hall, where nothing was private . . . well, it was a very trying time for a young hobbit. And Frodo was convinced he'd come out worse than most---while some of his friends had ended up with deep voices, he'd ended up with a more refined voice that still sounded squeaky on occasion when he was frightened or upset.   
  
He was utterly convinced Freesia would have been much more friendly toward him if he only had a deeper, more hearty voice like Drasco or Lotho or maybe even Fatty. Of course, he admitted, he did not have Lotho's unfortunate complexion problems. But on the other hand, having one's aunts comment appraisingly about one's "porcelain" skin was not so pleasant for a lad, either, and really got Frodo riled up.   
  
He shivered, coming back to the present and wiping his sweaty palms on the front of his gown, sighing. He already felt sticky all over despite Bilbo's earlier sponging. "Bilbo . . . I'm so thirsty . . ."  
  
Bilbo bit his lip as he regarded the lad, unbuttoning the top of Frodo's nightshirt and wiping down his charge's chest. "I'm sorry, dear boy, but I think it's best if we wait until Dr. Littlefield gets here before I give you anything else. I don't want you choking again."  
  
"Not even another tiny sip of the tea?" Just a few drops would have felt so good against his sore throat and perhaps taken his mind off the fact that his head and stomach were hurting so. "Just a tiny sip?"  
  
"I'm afraid not quite yet, Frodo. But just as soon as the doctor says it's all right, if he arrives soon. Now rest, lad---you're wearing yourself out."  
  
Feeling miserable, Frodo sniffled a bit and tried to turn over. But it was just too painful to move much and he quickly gave up, closing his eyes and trying to stretch against the near-constant burning sensation in his muscles. Bilbo, seeing his plight, gently rolled him onto his side and began to rub the small back.   
  
Both hobbits started when a loud knock sounded at the door. Reassuring his charge he'd be right back, Bilbo ran to answer it, the patter of his feet disappearing for several long minutes before Frodo heard two sets of footsteps out in the hallway---and voices talking low.   
  
"No, he can't seem to move it much at all . . ."  
  
" . . . vomiting and feverish?"  
  
". . . the choking was quite alarming . . ."  
  
" . . . a clear-cut diagnosis from that, Mr. Baggins . . ."  
  
". . . oh dear . . ."   
  
" . . . likely bedridden for some time . . ."  
  
The murmurs quieted and the footsteps resumed. Frodo opened his eyes to see Bilbo entering his room with a stocky older hobbit whom Frodo had met only a few times before. He had gray curls and, most astonishing to Frodo, a small amount of silky hair on his lower face----and though his beard was not full like Gandalf's, it nonetheless set the doctor apart as a Stoor hobbit from the Eastfarthing. Relatively new to Hobbiton, Dr. Littlefield was already renown for his unorthodox, yet seemingly effective, treatments.   
  
"Well, what have we got here?" he asked kindly, approaching the bed with a gentle smile as he set his bag on the table and leaned over Frodo. Despite his weakness the tweenager had to resist the urge to reach up and grab the doctor's downy chin. "Mr. Baggins tells me you've been feeling quite poorly, young Frodo. Let's have a look and see what we can do for you."  
  
Frodo tried to lay quiescent while Dr. Littlefield removed the compress and felt his forehead and cheeks. The doctor frowned a bit but schooled his features carefully when he caught the tween's eyes on him. "Yes, indeed, you've a temperature, young sir . . . and a nice black eye, as well. Your uncle tells me you got into a fight."  
  
"Y--yes . . . I didn't mean to . . . he hit me, and then later . . . jumped on me and I had to defend myself . . ."  
  
"Ah, I see. Well, I do hope his parents taught him a lesson for that one. A lad your age---probably an argument over a lass, am I right?" the doctor asked kindly, winking, as he peered into Frodo's throat and felt his neck and shoulders.   
  
Frodo felt his face turn red---he certainly didn't want to discuss such things with the older generation---and especially with this hobbit he barely knew. But the conversation *was* distracting him from the fact that he felt as if he was about to throw up again.   
  
The doctor, however, didn't seem to expect an answer from him, instead continuing his examination with a watchful eye. "I expect you're feeling rather ill with that fever. Are you sick to your stomach? Headachy?"  
  
"Y--yes. But I'm sure it's from my bruises . . ."  
  
"Perhaps so." Dr. Littlefield leaned over the tweenager and gently grasped his shoulders. "Now, Frodo, I just want to see if you can hold your head up for me."  
  
Hold his head up? Only small babes couldn't hold their heads up---Frodo well remembered his Aunt Esmeralda directing him how to hold his cousin when Merry was just a tiny tot. "Watch his head," she'd said, placing the wriggling bundle in Frodo's lap.   
  
Thinking back on it, Frodo frowned up at Dr. Littlefield, his eyebrows knitting together. "I'm not a baby," he murmured.   
  
"Of course you're not, Frodo. This will only take a moment."  
  
"All right." The tweenager grimaced as his shoulders were raised off the bed, and to his horror, his head flopped back limply. He started, his eyes widening. The fight with Lotho must have tired him out much more than he realized. In fact, he felt exhausted and hoped this examination would be over soon so he could curl up and go to sleep. And so that Bilbo would stop wringing his hands in the corner and realize Frodo had something simple like a bad cold or perhaps just a fit of the vapors.  
  
The doctor eased Frodo back down and folded the bedclothes away from his lower body, carefully picking up the young hobbit's legs. The left leg ached terribly, and despite the gentle touch Frodo could not hold back a whimper of pain. When asked to move the limb, he could only make it twitch the tiniest bit and looked up at Dr. Littlefield with large fearful eyes. "I can't move it . . . but I don't . . . I don't have the Bree palsy, do I? It's just from running while I had a cold, right?"   
  
Dr. Littlefield resettled Frodo's legs and tucked him back in snugly. Ruffling his patient's curls, he straightened and stood away from the bed, thoughtful.   
  
"Well, doctor?" Bilbo asked, his face wrinkled with worry. "Please tell us . . . Frodo must know as well."  
  
"Mr. Baggins, it's as I suspected when I first heard your nephew's symptoms. Please don't be frightened, either of you . . but it looks as if Frodo is indeed suffering from the Bree palsy."   
  
To be continued 


	7. Advice and Consultations

FIC: MATHOM 6/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. This fic contains no sex, no slash, and no profanity.   
  
In this fic, Frodo is 22, just a few months shy of turning 23. And while Frodo and Bilbo are cousins, since Bilbo referred to Frodo in FOTR as his "favourite nephew," I may occasionally refer to them as such . . .   
  
***  
  
"The Bree palsy? Are you certain?" It was Bilbo who spoke first, as Frodo lay frozen, trying to digest those few horrible little words the doctor had just uttered. He couldn't have the Bree palsy---why, he had things to do! It was summer in the Shire. He had a hike to the Southfarthing with Fredegar to consider and a visit planned to see the Bracegirdles' litter of striped kittens. And then there was Old Barnabas Puddifoot's birthday party---everyone knew he gave out excellent presents, and of course Freesia would be there---not to mention the fact that all Frodo's favorite places to read were now warm and sunny. No, he was busy. Much too busy to be ill.   
  
But the doctor was going on anyway. "Yes, I'm quite sure, Mr. Baggins. There seem to be three types of the disease. The first is fairly mild, the second may cause loss of function of the extremities, and the third causes paralysis of select muscles in the head. Frodo's difficulty in swallowing, evidenced by the choking episode you mentioned, plus the rather noticeable change in his voice, are caused by the third type."  
  
"But what about his leg then?" Bilbo asked. "Will that go away? Or will it get worse?" Rising, he sat on the edge of Frodo's bed and stroked the tweenager's sweat-soaked curls. Frodo sighed gratefully and leaned into his touch as the older hobbit grasped one overly-warm hand.   
  
Dr. Littlefield sighed. "I was getting to that. It IS possible to have a combination of the second and third types of Bree palsy---immobility of the arms or legs with head involvement---and it appears that's what Frodo has. He'll experience weakness until he's well on the road to recovery, but patients with these symptoms often regain full use of their limbs and don't even need a crutch. I won't lie to you---he's very sick and will be bedridden for some time. But on the other hand, it's entirely possible he's experiencing the worst of it right now."  
  
Frodo felt himself growing dizzy and barely heard the last sentence. He had a dread disease that might cripple him. A crutch? He would be ill for weeks? Or he might die . . . or worse, make others he loved sick . . . . And no matter what, he would be kept away from his friends for a long, long time---in Brandy Hall, nothing was so feared as the Bree palsy, and anyone who got it was seen by naught but his caregivers for weeks.   
  
Before he could stop it a small sob escaped, sending his belly spinning out of control. He gagged and brought up ginger tea, and immediately Bilbo was supporting his head, applying a cool towel to his brow as the doctor fetched a basin.   
  
"I'm sorry," Frodo croaked when he had finished, his head sagging back on his wet pillow. His head ached so miserably and his neck felt stiff and painful. "I'm sorry." Again he was surprised at the strange quality to his voice . . . he sounded just like a frog. That would impress Freesia, he thought ruefully, having a frog courting her. A frog with a black eye. Two black eyes, he corrected himself.   
  
"Sssshhh . . ." Bilbo soothed, moving out of the way as Dr. Littlefield checked the tweenager's temperature.   
  
"His fever will likely rise much higher, Mr. Baggins, and will need to be kept down. If he finds sponging too painful, I recommend a wet flannel sheet. Dispense with the nightshirt if you must---he probably won't be able to tolerate being undressed or the feel of cotton against his skin."  
  
Bilbo nodded and Frodo, sniffling, stared up at the doctor questioningly. "Will . . . will I die?"   
  
"Here now, young Frodo, we'll have you dancing the Springle-ring with that lass you won't tell me about in no time at all. What you must do is rest to get well. Absolute rest and quiet are essential."   
  
The tweenager bit his lip, blinking, as he tried to force difficult words out. "But . . . at Brandy Hall . . . some . . . some of my relatives . . . d--died from it."  
  
Bilbo swallowed hard, his careworn face drooping in concern. "Frodo-lad, don't speak so, now."  
  
But the doctor smiled, kneeling at the bedside and staring into the blue eyes gazing up at him expectantly. "It's possible, Frodo, to die from the most simple of illnesses---the flu, measles, mumps---even a stomach upset. Just like those illnesses, it's possible to die from the Bree palsy, but such hobbits are usually very old or very young or sick to begin with, not a strong lad like you."  
  
"But . . . they couldn't breathe . . ."  
  
Dr. Littlefield nodded grimly. "A very few who get it may suffer from paralyzed chest muscles and cease breathing. But trust me, lad, that's an extremely rare complication." He grinned, ruffling Frodo's curls. "You've a far better chance of getting skewered by a pitchfork at your next barn raising."  
  
"All . . . all right." The word was just a whisper, but Frodo managed a slight smile. "Can I have some water? I'm so thirsty."  
  
"Just a moment, Frodo . . . let's try something and test your swallowing. Mr. Baggins, if you would hand me my bag . . . yes, thank you." Fishing in the bag, Dr. Littlefield pulled out a medicine dropper and filled it with cool water from the pitcher nearby before raising Frodo's head a bit.   
  
"Now, I'm just going to put a few drops on your tongue---open your mouth for me, that's right . . . now swallow very carefully."  
  
The scant amount of liquid felt grand on Frodo's tongue, and although he was able to swallow only with difficulty, he managed to do it without the water coming back out his nose, which seemed to please the doctor greatly.   
  
"Good, good," Dr. Littlefield said, smiling as he handed the dropper to Bilbo. "You may keep this for now, Mr. Baggins. Feed him only tiny amounts, a few drops at a time to avoid choking. It's best to try only clear broths right now until the vomiting settles, as well as all the ginger tea he can handle. Nothing thick---no custards or puddings---too hard to swallow. But lots of liquids---that fever and the vomiting make it very important he take in fluids. I have several packets of herbs I'm going to leave with you just now for him---something to ease the headache, and of course skullcap will help a bit with spasms----"  
  
Frodo closed his eyes, wearily drowning out the doctor's long list of advice to Bilbo. Dimly he was aware of hands lifting the bedclothes and he shivered, sighing when hot-water bottles were placed about his aching bones. The heat *did* feel very good and seemed to ease the discomfort.   
  
"Is that helping, lad?" Bilbo asked, dabbing at the tweenager's face with a towel.  
  
"Yes . . . feels good."  
  
A cool hand felt Frodo's face again and the tweenager heard the doctor's voice just above him.   
  
"Well, Mr. Baggins, I must be on my way soon. But first I must tell you . . ."  
  
He paused for a moment, and Frodo opened his eyes, listening. He had a distinct feeling he wasn't going to like what was coming next. He'd seen this "trick" with doctors before---they acted as if you were fine and on the road to recovery, only to spring a bit of unpleasantness on you.   
  
"Unfortunately," the doctor said, proving at least part of Frodo's theory true by his first word and the fact that he only looked at Bilbo, "there are no medicines that will halt this disease---we can only treat the symptoms as they occur. In short, your boy is going to need constant and skilled care, Mr. Baggins. I'd like to send over one of my best nurses, Bolandra Mugwort, to help. She lived in Bree until her husband passed away some years ago and is quite adept at dealing with palsy patients."   
  
Frodo frowned, shifting miserably and grimacing as he felt his nightshirt twisting around his thighs. He didn't particularly care for the idea of someone other than Bilbo tending to him. As if being ill wasn't bad enough, the last thing he wanted was a stranger named "Mugwort" about. "Bilbo . . ." he pleaded, "I won't need much care . . . I'll do my best to recover soon . . . please?"  
  
"I don't know, my boy . . . I'm afraid Dr. Littlefield is right. If we can have someone knowledgeable to come help us . . ."  
  
"Yes," Dr. Littlefield said, "don't fret, Frodo. Bolandra has borne six children of her own and has a way with young hobbits. Now, Mr. Baggins, of course you'll need to keep Frodo away from others, make certain you wash your hands after tending to him every time, and eat or drink nothing he's touched. I'll write up a set of guidelines for you to follow for disposing of wastes and linens---best we can tell, that's the easiest way to catch the palsy. Of course, at your age, you've likely had a mild form of it and won't catch it again. But we don't want to take chances."  
  
Resigned, Frodo closed his eyes. His head was throbbing right behind his eyes. The hot-water bottles had done nothing to ease that and he was actually looking forward to even bitter tea if it relieved the pain.  
  
"I'll send Bolandra and some of my assistants with supplies right over---wool for packing, plenty more hot-water bottles, medicines, and whatever else I think you'll need. Now, I'll be on my way---but I will certainly be back later this evening and twice a day, at least initially, to check on our young patient." Smiling, Dr. Littlefield very gently rubbed the tweenager's shoulder and walked out with Bilbo.  
  
But at the doctor's first sentence, Frodo's eyes had widened. Packing? Whatever it was, it sounded painful, and he was suddenly very frightened.  
  
To be continued 


End file.
